


The Lovers that Went Wrong

by supermatique



Series: The Kind of Trouble [3]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Extramarital Affairs, F/F, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-17 12:19:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4666311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supermatique/pseuds/supermatique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love — or the impression of — is complex, undefined, and never entirely enough.</p><p>Post-S3. I ran with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoy this story, whichever one of Franky's terrible portmanteaus you prefer.
> 
> Thanks to Ria and RB for the read throughs.
> 
> Title is from "Youth" by Daughter.

 

 

P A R T  I.

S U M M E R

 

_How did it all change when I felt your touch?_

\- “Touch,” MAALA

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s her first day of freedom. 

Real, proper freedom. None of that parole bullshit.

Franky studies her organiser, smoothing down the worn, folded pad of legal paper stuck to the back of it. It’s marked with a rainbow of pen and pencil marks, tallying over a thousand days. She’d read the statistics, and kept a page of them in the back of her diary alongside those tallies, just to remind herself how easy it was to slip up, how easy it was to make it look like she had. More than a quarter of parolees back behind bars within two years, almost seventy per cent back within one. 

She refused to be one of them.

The marks had begun as a counter of sorts, like she had seen someone do on Big Brother when she was younger—as though they were savouring each morning, like there might not be another mark to make the next day—and over the years it had become habit. 

That morning, she’d made the last count.

The garage door grumbles beneath the floor, and Franky puts her organiser aside as she listens to Bridget walk in downstairs. She knows the routine: depending on whether Bridget drove or rode out that morning, she will park and shut off the engine. Then she will take her boots off, switch off the garage light and shut the door, and then head up the stairs. She would reach the kitchen just about… now.

“Ms Doyle.” Bridget appears in view, a big grin on her face and a bottle of champagne in tow.

Franky grins in reply. “Ms Westfall.”

Bridget holds the champagne like a makeshift microphone. “How does it feel to be a free woman?” 

“It’s so…” Franky pretends to think, sauntering over to Bridget to meet her halfway. She wraps her arms around Bridget’s waist and sways her hips against Bridget’s, smirking at Bridget’s sharp inhale. “Liberating.”

Bridget cracks up, wrapping her free arm around Franky as she throws her head back in laughter. They kiss, smiling against one another, and Franky nips at Bridget’s lower lip as she pulls away. It feels fucking awesome to be free. Parole had felt a yawning eternity, stretching far into the distance. And now, it’s finally over.

“I missed you today,” Bridget says, kissing Franky one more time before going to the cupboard and rummaging around for the champagne flutes. “Did you decide on what you want for dinner?”

 

_“Why do we have to get out of bed?”_

_“I don’t have to get out of bed. You have to get out of bed.” Bridget laughed to soothe the sting and, in the end, got up first. “Come on, I’ll drive you back.”_

_Franky rolled over and stared at the ceiling. There wasn’t much incentive to stay in now that Bridget was up and had taken the sheets with her. “Curfew sucks.”_

_“Just one more week. Then we’re good.”_

_“It’s a bullshit condition to begin with,” Franky grumbled as if Bridget hadn’t said anything. “And Peterson’s deliberately fucking up my paperwork for sure.”_

_“Well.” Bridget didn’t argue the point. She put her shirt back on, elbow stretching the sleeve as she pulled the cotton over her head. “Whatever he’s doing, I think you'll have to get out of bed now.” She smoothed down her hair. “Have you seen my pants?”_

_Franky leaned over the side of the bed and tossed Bridget her jeans. The black denim sailed overhead, narrowly missing the bedside lamp on the way. Bridget caught it easily._

_“When can I see you?”_

_“I’ve got community service Thursday… meeting Peterson on Friday morning. After that?”_

_“Full day on Friday. Dinner?”_

_Franky tamped down her annoyance at the unscheduled nature of their lives. She was well aware of her dependence on the routine that Wentworth ingrained into her, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t actively hate it._

_“What about dinner now?”_

_Bridget smirked. “What, didn’t get enough just then?”_

 

“Oh,” Franky says. “I was going to make an omelette. There’s some ham that still looks okay.”

“A celebration feast,” Bridget laughs, presenting Franky with a glass of bubbles with a flourish. “You don’t want to go out?”

“Do you?” Franky asks. She’s a little surprised to find that she doesn’t really. It’s a day she’s been looking forward to ever since she stepped out of that burning prison to start her probationary freedom, and now that it’s here, she feels only contentment and relief, rather than jubilant satisfaction she thought she would. “I thought the earlier we eat, the quicker I can get you to bed.”

“Well,” Bridget drawls, “when you put it like that, why eat at all?”

-

Franky starts the new semester as a free citizen for the first time, and also incredibly late for class. Bridget drops her off outside campus and kisses her goodbye; in the elevator, she composes a text to her boss at the law firm about the pretrial order she’d emailed over earlier that morning, cursing at the lack of reception. She slips into the room, sending another text about the deposition notice for the Cockburn file, and grabs the handouts from the box at the front before slouching down in the closest seat. She’s chewing her nails, waiting for the text to finish sending, only half-tuned into tutor’s briefing when she realises: she’s being watched.

She glances up. Sitting directly opposite her in a mouth-watering navy suit and slate blouse is Erica.

“This is Erica Davidson,” the tutor begins, as if on cue, but Franky’s not listening. Neither is Erica, if the stare she’s returning across the table is any indication. There’s a buzzing in Franky’s head, a static clouding her vision as her body recalls the thrill, her skin prickling in anticipation.

Erica’s gaze is keen, a pleasantly surprised smile pulling at the side of her mouth as the tutor explains her presence. Franky bites her lip, trying not to laugh. All those months in the library sitting across the table from Erica, pretending they were somewhere else, entertaining her thoughts to get her mind off the futility of her situation, and now here they were.

“Thanks, Judy,” Erica says, and Franky sits up a little straighter, conscious of her posture, resisting the urge to lean across the table. She’ll play it cool until she knows just what she’s in for. “I’m really glad to be able to be a part of the workshops this semester. A colleague of mine trialled it last year and everyone thought it went well, so it’s fantastic to be doing it again.” 

Franky pays only the barest of attention, offers only the minimum of input when they form groups of four and begin to discuss the case study on hand. There’s one other girl in her group, a young outspoken blonde chomping at the bit to take the lead, and Franky’s more than happy to sit back and let her. She’s new; Franky hasn’t seen her in any other lectures in previous years, and they’re all pretty tight knit at this stage.

Erica’s quietly in discussion with Judy over the cases they’re to be presented, and Franky openly drinks her in. The engagement ring is still there, dulled beneath the lackadaisical fluorescent lights of the classroom, joined now by a plain silver band inset with a smaller diamond. The glint is enough to kill the first question on Franky’s mind, but not enough to shed the curiosity she’s thrumming with. 

She knows Erica can feel her gaze, can see Franky out in her peripheral vision constantly looking her way, but Erica only looks up once. It’s enough. Franky sends her most confident smirk, and Erica looks away, but the shadow of a smile hiding behind her hair is enough for Franky.

Arbitration is all about who can speak the most and loudest, it seems, and Franky’s group leader has nailed it in the three hours. In the last hour, the teams reconvene to present their cases to Erica and Judy, and Franky lets the blonde girl, Victoria, take the reins. 

“What do you think, Franky?” Erica asks towards the end of Victoria’s presentation, and she asks it casually enough but Franky recognises the teasing challenge in the set of her jaw.

“Uh,” Franky hedges, stalling for time. She’s only had time to read half of the assigned material. She thinks quickly, trying to remember what Victoria’s said about their case. It’s about two parties who had previously arbitrated an issue but were still revisiting it three years later. “Yeah, I agree. I don’t think arbitration would’ve saved them any money at all if the second arbitrator wasn’t compelled to apply _res judicata_.” _Was that the question?_

“Okay,” is all Erica says, and makes a note on her legal pad with the same shadow of a smile. “Thank you.”

-

“Miss Davidson!” she calls from the doorway when the workshop is over.

Erica turns, as if she had been expecting Franky to follow her the whole time. “Franky,” Erica says, crossing her arms. “You look well.”

“I’ve been well,” Franky counters. Her mind races for something substantial to say. It’s been years but she still remembers how she felt in Wentworth, remembers the terrible weeks in the slot, seeing the ring, hearing Erica was leaving, finding out her letters had been returned and read by Ferguson and Channing… The memories rush back in and shake her up like dice in a cup. “This is a surprise.”

“I could say the same.”

The floor is empty, no rush of foot traffic around them and they stand in the middle of the hallway, taking each other in. Franky breaks first, giving Erica her brightest smile, and Erica follows suit with a wry grin of her own. 

“So,” Erica says eventually, “Arbitration?”

Franky shrugs. “I needed an elective. What’s your excuse?”

“I needed a break from public law.”

“That’s a shame,” Franky teases, regaining her easy footing around Erica. “The criminal justice system will be missing those legs.”

She expects Erica to dodge the comment, deflect the provocation with a smile, but Erica meets Franky’s smirk with one of her own and says, “Just the legs?”

Franky’s at a loss for words. “No, definitely not just the legs.” She ducks her head and grins, shaking her head. “I missed you,” she admits, her breath leaving her lungs all at once as she says it. “It’s—it’s good to see you.” It’s all there is to say, all that she wants to say.

Erica doesn’t come quite close to agreeing out loud, but it’s there in the beam that lingers on the edge of her mouth, the relaxing of her posture as they continue to just stand there and drink each other in. It’s electric, yet calming all at once, and Franky feels an alertness that she hasn’t felt for months.

The elevator dings, the sole occupant exiting and marching across the carpet. Shortly afterward a door farther down the hall opens and shuts. The sounds bring Franky back to earth. “I should head back in.”

Erica nods, but they linger, half-turning in their respective directions, unsure of how to end the exchange. It’s a marked difference from how they ended their last interaction together now that the power is stripped from the balance. Franky’s briefly struck by the fact that they’re now just two people meeting after a long time. The normalcy is startling.

“I’m glad you’re out, Franky.” Erica reaches out and touches Franky’s arm, leaving her skin tingling. “Glad you’re onto better things.”

It means a lot to hear that. As the years have ticked by, the work’s gotten harder but the twelve months with Erica were like a foundation for the whole, and Franky hasn’t forgotten them. 

“See you next week, Erica.”


	3. Chapter 3

Despite her best intentions of being early for class next week, Franky still only just makes it there in time. Now that she’s off parole, she’s picked up more hours at work; combined with the reading material and study she has to do for school, she’s wondering if she’s bitten off more than she can chew.

Seeing Erica in class is more than worth it, though. She’s been looking forward to it all week, making sure that she at least read the assigned chapters in the recommended text. And it pays off: she and Victoria kill it, and it’s the most fun she’s had out of all her workshops so far.

At the end of class Franky dashes to the door to hold it open from behind Erica. “Wanna grab a coffee?” she asks. She’s got class in an hour and it’s not a lot of time, but she’ll make it work.

Erica turns slightly and brushes against Franky, the two of them bumping into each other as Franky’s momentum propels her forward. They chuckle, and Franky steps back to give Erica some space to regain her stride. There’s something comfortable in the moment, like a dance they’ve known the steps to all along. 

And maybe it’s that easy pattern that silences any hesitation Erica might have had, because she agrees, and it’s that simple. 

Erica’s pressed for time, too, with a meeting she needs to prepare for, so they go to a hole-in-the-wall cafe across the street overlooking a small park. Franky orders a double espresso, milk on the side, and Erica’s mouth quirks up at that. 

“Flat white, please,” she tells the barista. Franky grabs their number and they pick a table closer to the back.

They look at each other to begin with, unsure of where to start. They never were ones for small talk, but they put up a good attempt—Franky catches Erica up on her parole, continuing her studies on the outside, working as a paralegal with the Advanced Diploma. Erica pulls a face at being told they pulled the Bachelor program from Franky after she left. Franky can’t hide the beam that splits her face so wide it hurts her jaw. She tries to dial it back a little, but Erica’s gaze carries its own twinkle, and overall it’s not so bad.

“I was told you moved to Sydney,” Franky says. “When I got out. I looked for you.”

Erica twists the ring on her finger; Franky wonders if she even realises she’s doing it. “I did. We moved back last year.”

She’s guarded, now, a little evasive, so Franky doesn’t press for an explanation. The waitress brings them their coffee with a bright smile and it tempers the moment for a while. Erica takes her time stirring two and a half packets of brown sugar into her coffee, skimming the back of her teaspoon over the light foam surface.

Franky wishes they weren’t in public right then. She’s transported back to the relative privacy of Wentworth’s study centre, sitting across the table from Erica. In that bubble she had pushed as far as she could to drop Erica’s shield, to earn her fond exasperation, see Erica duck her head just so, with the small smile that would pull unbidden at the corner of her mouth as she tried to get Franky to focus. 

She toys with the sachets of sugar and Equal at the centre of the table, leafing through the different coloured packets and flicking the edges one by one.

“It hurt, when you left.” Erica looks up sharply at that. “They brought in this freak—we called her the Freak—you probably heard about it.”

“I did,” Erica allows. She’s concentrating on her coffee with a wary, somewhat doubtful expression.

“I was top dog for a bit. She wanted to take me down because I wouldn’t play with her bullshit. And then Bea—fuck, Erica, it was a mess.” Franky warms her hands against her coffee mug and shakes her head. It’s been years, but she still remembers it all clearly. Her memories are like grainy film stock that play back perfectly, whether she wants them to or not. 

“Franky.” 

“I was so angry.” Franky swallows. She hasn’t intended to blurt everything out like this, but it’s as if a thread has been pulled loose and it won’t stop unravelling her. “You left me. You left me just like everybody else did.”

Erica looks like she’s about to protest the point, but sighs. “I couldn’t come back, Franky. They cut me out as quickly as they could.”

“I know that. Didn’t make it any easier.” She slumps back in her seat, arms folded, and chews on her lip. She feels like a petulant child misplacing blame about something entirely uncontrollable, like the weather. At least she’s adult enough to be self aware about it, or something.

“It was a long time ago.” 

It _was_ a long time ago, but being face-to-face again brings it all back to the surface. Franky shrugs, a careless one shoulder lift. “It was fucked up.”

Erica laughs, a huff of agreement. “Yeah, it was.”

They fall into some sort of silent détente, then, and then Erica offers Franky a rueful grin. “Start over?” she says. 

Franky’s caught up in her like a rabbit in a snare. “I’d like nothing better.”

*

*

*

They fall into an easy rhythm from there, catching up when they can. Franky’s increasingly busy with class and juggling her hours at Sweetman & York, which leaves their meetings few and far between as the semester wears on.

“I wrote you letters,” she tells Erica one week, on a date sandwiched between Criminal Procedure and Mediation. They’ve been picking off the top cafés on Yelp but their favourite—and most convenient—choice turns out to be in the campus library.

“I never got them,” Erica says, surprised, and then shakes her head. “Of course. You wouldn’t even have gotten them through to an officer.”

“Don’t you want to know what they said?” Franky teases.

Erica chuckles dryly. “I think I can imagine.”

“Still. I could read them to you… in my voice. Can’t beat the original, right?”

“Franky…”

They navigate their way outside through a rush of students and at the bottom of the steps Franky turns to Erica. “Let’s do lunch tomorrow. Come on,” she cajoles, when Erica sucks in a breath, hesitating. “It’ll be study break soon and it’s going to be a bitch trying to get together. I have a free afternoon. Push back a meeting or something.”

Erica shakes her head, hands shoved deep into her pockets. There’s a wry smile tugging on the edge of her mouth, the one she always gets when Franky tries to charm her into something, and with a triumphant grin Franky knows she’ll get what she wants. “There’s a cafe across the road from the firm,” Erica says eventually. “It has a lion in the window. I’ll come down and meet you there.”

“All right. Twelve?”

“Mm.” Erica purses her lips, thinking. “Maybe twelve thirty.”

“Done.”

They’re headed in opposite directions, but they linger to the side, students milling all around them. It isn’t until someone from Franky’s Evidence class recognises her and stops to organise their next study group that Erica leaves unobtrusively, unaware of Franky following her with her eyes until she’s turned the corner.

-

The lion in the window is actually a cougar. Franky points this out to Erica, who laughs and admits she’s only seen the display from her office. They don’t have much time; Erica has indeed had to push back a meeting till later in the afternoon, so they just decide to try the cougar cafe. A girl with a sleeve tattoo and a string of ear piercings shows them to a booth in the back. She winks at Franky, who grins in return, and Erica clears her throat.

“Don’t worry,” Franky teases, once they’re seated. “I’ve only got eyes for you.”

“That’s not—” Erica picks up the menu and is very interested by what’s on offer. “Never mind.”

Franky watches Erica peruse the menu, and tamps down the hope that sparks unbidden. _Don’t forget how she left you_ , a small voice warns her, and so she grabs a menu for herself and scans the selection of sandwiches and salads.

The girl comes back to take their order—Erica chooses a salad and a cappuccino; Franky goes for a smoked chicken sandwich and her usual coffee.

“Thanks for making the time,” Franky says honestly. “This semester’s been a mess. I don’t know how I’m going to get everything done.”

“You will,” Erica replies easily. “You’ll have to.”

Franky chuckles without humour. “Thanks for the pep talk, guv.”

“I mean it,” Erica says. “You were the most worthwhile pursuit I had in Wentworth.”

Franky smirks, but feels inordinately proud of hearing that. “So how come I was the one doing most of the chasing, hmm?” she asks, and grins at Erica’s slight flush. 

“You know why,” Erica says, rolling her eyes. “How are you going with the practice exams?” she asks, changing the subject.

The rest of lunch goes by far too quickly for her liking. They part the same way they always do—with a brief hug—but today Erica kisses her on the cheek with a hand on her elbow. Franky drinks in the sensation of Erica’s smooth lips against her cheek, the warm press of her mouth against her skin, and a fleeting flash of how it would feel with that mouth on another part of her. “Good luck with your exams,” she murmurs into Franky’s ear, and smiles at Franky when she pulls away. 

_Fuck_ , Franky thinks as she watches Erica leave.

-

Her exams are stacked, three of them almost back to back before a four day break. She ditches her study group, finding them too much of a distraction now, and holes herself up in the Law library, not leaving until almost midnight. Victoria joins her sometimes—Franky learns that she's transferred from Adelaide to be with her boyfriend—but it's one thing that's hung over from Wentworth: she works best alone, with her own head and thoughts. The library was a sanctuary in prison, books her only reliable companion, and it's comforting being in the same environment now. 

Bridget picks her up most nights, parking a plate of food in front of her when they get home, and Franky hits the books again before joining her in bed much, much later. It's exhausting, and she can't wait for the break, although she's already enrolled in the winter school semester in the hopes that she'll be able to take a load off later on.

She texts Erica for a catch up on a Tuesday afternoon after her last exam, surprised to find her phone ringing in reply. 

“Hi,” she answers with her phone cradled between her ear and shoulder, fishing in her bag for her Myki card. 

“How’d it go?”

“I don’t know,” Franky says on an exhale. “Okay, I guess. I’m ready to sleep for a week.”

There’s a long pause on the other end, and it’s so quiet that Franky wonders if the connection’s been cut when Erica finally says, “Mark’s away.”

It’s as if Franky’s blood has stilled in her veins, her breath frozen on the intake. The immediate space around her seems to slow down with Erica’s words hanging in between, and even though they’re speaking over the phone, it is as though the entire conversation is playing out for them over the line, and they both know what’s being said, and what they’ll do in the aftermath. Franky waits, and time snaps back to its normal pace. “Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight?” Erica continues.

“Okay,” Franky hears herself reply. Her mouth is suddenly dry.

“I’ll text you the address.”

Franky signals the bus and gets on, feeling in a dream state. She hangs up without replying, watching the campus pull away from the window like a rolling shutter.

*

*

*

“I cheated,” Erica says, and Franky looks up at her, wishing she had a cigarette to smoke or something to distract herself with instead of just nothing and air. “In Sydney. Mark found out. It’s why we came back. He wanted to leave.”

“You didn’t leave him.”

“No,” is all Erica says, and her tone is inattentive, distracted, drifting away on the cloud of non-existent smoke from the cigarette Franky doesn’t have.

She feels a faint stir of hunger in her belly. They’d barely gotten to eating, having done away with the pretense of dinner somewhere between the first glass of wine and Erica getting up to check on the sauce. It’ll be well cooled by now, but not inedible. Franky stretches in place, enjoying the languid pleasure of being fucked raw, and decides not to get up for now.

“I’m with someone,” she offers, not really knowing why. Maybe she feels she needs to give up something in return. 

If Erica’s surprised, she doesn’t show it. “She believed in me,” Franky continues, feeling mean all of a sudden. Erica tenses at that, and Franky runs the back of her hand down Erica’s ribcage, feeling her heartbeat flutter beneath.

 

_“I don’t want to talk about it.”_

_“Franky.”_

_“You’re not my fucking mother, don’t tell me what to do,” Franky snapped, slicing the last of the tomatoes with an unnecessary vehemence._

_“I should bloody well hope not,” Bridget retorted, stung. “You asked for my opinion and I gave it.”_

_“Well, I don’t want it any more.”_

_“Wow.” Bridget shook her head. “That’s a mature way to approach the situation.”_

_“Oh, sorry,” Franky exclaimed, chucking the veg into the pan harder than she needed to. Steam rose up from the stove with a sizzle. “Sorry we're not all mature and adult like you, Ms Hotshot PhD psychologist. Tell me, if you’re so together, how come your personal life is so fucked up?”_

_Bridget scoffed in disbelief. “I’m not doing this with you right now.”_

_Something cruel in Franky wanted to see Bridget snap, make her lose that utterly grating control. She turned from the element and faced Bridget, who was watching her with her professional face on—the cool, removed expression that usually impressed Franky but for now only served to increase her irritation._

_“Go on,” Franky pushed. “Do it. Right now. Why can’t we get our shit together? Huh?”_

_Bridget refused to bite. “I know the system’s not easy," she said. "I know it’s hard getting back on your feet. But don’t take it out on me.”_

_“I don’t need a women’s mentoring program,” Franky said, feeling deflated all of a sudden. Bridget simply stood there watching her, waiting as if she knew there was more. "It's all going to be people who can't get their shit together," Franky blurted out, and everything she'd been stewing about all came tumbling forth in a rush. "People who need randoms to hold their hand to go to the supermarket. I'm not one of them."_

_"No, you're not," Bridget said gently, and her clear gaze told Franky that Bridget knew everything she wasn't saying._

 

She runs her hand up Erica’s stomach, scratching lightly. Erica’s skin is already beginning to bruise faintly, and there’s a long welt from her shoulder to her breast. Franky traces it, pebbling a nipple beneath her thumb. She pinches, and Erica inhales, long and deep, turning towards Franky.

“Are you happy?”

“Are you?”

Erica doesn’t reply, instead tangling her fingers in Franky’s hair, and lets herself be trapped between Franky’s body and the mattress.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

P A R T II.  
A U T U M N

 

_Do you remember my heart beating through my chest for you?_  
\- “We Could be Better,” Janine and the Mixtape

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Their affair catches like smoke on the edges of a damp leaf, tentatively and in the stillness of an hourglass. On the edge of her awareness, Franky realises that what they’re doing is reckless, going to Erica’s place, going to a hotel, whatever they can manage. She tells Bridget a rota of lies: she’s studying, she’s working, she’s out for drinks with the team. They’re not entirely lies; she does those things, too—Law school seems like an orgy of alcohol and networking, with not a lot of study in between—but for the most part, she’s with Erica.

It’s turned from purely sex into something different, now, and the two-week winter school semester finds Franky carting books and case studies over to wherever it is they’re fucking this time, and Erica quizzes her on negotiation and advanced tax law.

“All your electives are commercial,” Erica notes one afternoon, leafing through where Franky’s circled a few options she’s looking at enrolling in for the second semester.

Franky shrugs. “I like business.”

Erica arches an eyebrow. “Clearly.”

“Sorry I’m not a bleeding heart for the helpless.” Franky rolls her eyes and marks down a journal article for further reading, scribbling a note in the margin.

She hears, rather than sees, Erica smirk beside her. “Have you thought about your PLT?” 

Franky shakes her head. She hasn’t really had time, but knows she’ll have to get cracking if she doesn’t want it to sneak up on her. “I’m hoping I can credit my hours to what I’m doing now, but other than that, nah.”

“What are your responsibilities?”

“The usual. Research, drafting, glorified personal assistant.”

“If you’d like,” Erica says carefully, “I can look into getting you hours at the firm.”

Franky looks up. Erica’s not kidding. “Seriously?”

“We do a lot of insolvency. I’m sure Steven could use a hand.”

“And what about you?”

Erica pretends to consider it. “I could do with more than a hand.”

Franky tackles her to the mattress and tosses the handbook away with a grin.

*

Erica sets Franky up with a meeting in the small break she has before the start of the new semester. Steven Dunham’s a tall guy with an even smile, greying around the temples, who looks like he’d rather be around a barbeque than the office. He’s probably one of the only men Franky’s met whom she feels somewhat at ease around. 

“Sweetman and York?” he says, when Franky fills him in on her paralegal work so far. “I did my Masters with a guy who worked there—Richard Sweden.”

The name doesn’t ring a bell. “Before my time, maybe,” Franky says. 

“We’re not as decrepit as we look,” Steven replies with a laugh. “So what kind of drafting did you do? They’re mainly employment law still, aren’t they?”

Franky nods. They spend the next twenty minutes or so chatting about the firm (Steven’s one of three partners, and they have a dozen staff and a goldfish), about what kind of law Franky wants to get into (commercial but keeping her options open), and then Franky’s wit is put to the test as they talk about everything ranging from cricket to literature. 

Towards the end, Steven’s secretary knocks on the door and pokes her head in to remind him about a meeting at two. “Thanks, Heather,” he says, and turns to Franky with a rueful smile. “Back to it, I guess.” He rifles around his desk for a couple of folders and keys in something on his laptop. Franky notes that he could do with a better filing system. 

“Yeah,” she says. “Thanks for your time.” 

“No worries.” Steven gathers his things and gives Franky his card. “Look, shoot me an email, send me your details. I know Monica’s got someone lined up for next year already but I think we can make a space for you.”

It’s not what she was expecting at all, and she shakes Steven’s hand a little more enthusiastically than she would’ve liked to come across. “That’s great, thank you,” she says, mind drifting to the various ways she can thank Erica. “I’ll definitely be in touch.”

She looks for Erica on her way out. Erica walks with her, and Franky’s overwhelmed by the urge to kiss her. Instead, she says, “Dinner tonight? My shout.”

“I have a thing tonight,” Erica says, her regret genuine. “We can do drinks if you want to meet later? It’s in Southbank.”

Franky’s not going to say no. “Text me,” she says, and settles for a hug when they part. 

-

Franky waits for Erica outside the Southbank Theatre, scrolling through a Google Doc Victoria’s set up for study notes. She hasn’t come out to the Arts district for a while, and a part of her wonders if anything might have come out of the cooking show. _Franky Doyle, Reality TV Star_. The one that hadn’t gone to prison, anyway.

“You made it.” Erica’s voice breaks into her thoughts and Franky turns around, stunned to see Erica dressed in a tremendous midnight blue sheath, offset by a simple diamond pendant necklace. Franky feels underdressed in her blouse and blazer. She wonders where Mark is, but not enough to ask out loud. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“You look amazing,” Franky blurts, pocketing her phone. “I’d wait all night.”

Erica blushes, an edge of light from a nearby streetlight striking a shadow across her face. “The bar downstairs is still open,” she says. “Unless there’s somewhere else you want to go?”

 _Somewhere I can take that dress off you_ , Franky thinks, and her lust must be plain on her face, because Erica exhales shakily. “Franky,” she says quietly, her tone almost pleading, and Franky clenches her fists to stop herself from touching Erica right there.

She swallows the urge, ignoring the ache that’s building between her legs, and smiles. “Lead the way.”

-

Franky tries a new whisky—she’s been on a scotch kick recently—and Erica orders a red wine. Her function that evening had been a small fundraiser for an ex-colleague at her father’s law firm, which had been exhausting. “I need about three of these,” she says, when they sit down. “How did it go with Steven?”

Franky fills her in. “I emailed him when I got home,” she says, and Erica nods approvingly. 

“It’ll be good for you,” Erica says. “He’s done a lot of work in London as well.”

“Yeah, we’ll see,” Franky replies. “Honestly, I’m more interested in seeing you around the office.” She punctuates her sentence with a grin, and Erica just shakes her head and laughs. 

“Focus, Franky.”

“It never was my strong point,” Franky teases. “Don’t you remember?”

Erica rolls her eyes. “Trust me, I remember.”

The conversation turns to more neutral ground, and Franky continues to appreciate how she and Erica never run out of topics, or shy away from how in-depth the dialogue goes. They talk about Netflix, Tony Abbott, the recent construction work on campus, and all the while Franky thinks about how alluring Erica looks in that dress, and wonders if she only toys with the pendant when she’s nervous.

Erica excuses herself to go to the bathroom, and Franky debates over whether to follow her before picking up Erica’s clutch and deciding, _fuck it_. The bathroom is grand, almost opulent, lighting warm and low over a backdrop of international cities printed on the walls. Erica’s just emerged from the stall, wiping her hands dry when Franky enters, manoeuvring her back inside.

“What are you—” Erica starts, and Franky presses her farther into the stall with a gentle hand on her stomach. 

“It’s okay,” she tells Erica, hushing her protest with a fleeting kiss and a smile. “It’s just us.”

Erica hesitates, and Franky waits, hand still on Erica’s waist. The stall is tiny, with a small basin and mirror of its own next to the toilet, and when Erica reaches past Franky to shut and lock the door, it's even tinier still. A thrill runs through Franky as Erica grabs the back of her neck, kissing her hard on the mouth, shedding Franky of her blazer. There’s enough sense in them still to hang it up on the single hook behind the door, but with the alcohol buzzing in Franky’s head, the heady scent of Erica’s perfume and body is a deadly combination.

She braces a foot against the wall behind her and presses her body harder against Erica’s, rucking up Erica’s dress easily and slipping her hand into the burning wetness between them.

 _“Oh,”_ Erica gasps sharply, her moan turning into a low keen as Franky licks a line up from her collarbone to her neck, sucking hard at the pulse point there. Erica’s body is hot, pliant beneath her own, and the stall is way too damn small for this. Erica’s pupils glitter when they reflect the ceiling spotlight, irises shot to black with a pinprick of diamonds. She looks wild, undone, and Franky can’t get enough.

Erica lifts her leg and Franky grabs her thigh, hooking it around her waist. Erica’s skin is smooth and hot, like liquid fire against Franky’s already-burning skin, and a feral sound escapes her throat as her hips move restlessly, attempting any way to relieve the ache between her own legs.

“What do you want?” she demands, feeling possessive all of a sudden. Erica’s hand tightens against the back of her neck, pulling painfully at Franky’s hair as they rut against the wall.

“Fuck me,” Erica chokes out between gulps of air, “I want you to fuck me.”

“He does nothing for you,” Franky pants against Erica’s shoulder, unable to help biting down sharply with her teeth. She deliriously hates Mark right then, the way he gets to have Erica in his bed every night, the way he gets to touch her at all and not have to do it in some toilet stall, no matter how upscale it is. 

“No,” Erica sobs. " _Franky._ " The lock rattles the door with their frantic movements. She’s close, Franky can feel it, the tell-tale way Erica likes to slow down a little bit, lengthening her thrusts to prolong the edge. Then Erica reaches down and fumbles for Franky’s hand, pushing harder, and she comes with a sharp cry that Franky muffles with her free hand. She’s completely disheveled when she comes down, sighing softly as Franky pulls the last vestiges of orgasm from her body, running her hands down Franky’s back. 

Then she pushes Franky back, sending Franky against the opposite wall so hard it knocks the breath from her lungs. In a heartbeat she’s on her knees, undoing Franky’s pants and stripping her of her underwear on the way down, her tongue on Franky like she’s never tasted a cunt before.

“Shit,” Franky breathes. She won’t last long, she knows, and she’s almost there when Erica stops and stands, leaning in close. 

“I fuck myself sometimes,” she whispers hotly in Franky’s ear, running her thumb feather-light over Franky’s clit. Franky bites back a whimper, pumping her hips desperately, her orgasm so goddamn elusive. “I think of you, fucking me from behind, tying me up. I think of you inside me, your tongue on me, making me come. You’re right. He does nothing for me,” Erica tells her, voice breaking towards the end, and everything turns into a wild of static, her knees buckling under Erica’s touch. 

When it’s over, Erica looks ashamed. Franky gets dressed, licking Erica off her fingers, and slouches on the closed toilet lid. In the tiny mirror she watches Erica’s reflection wash her hands, splash water on her face. A section of Erica’s dress has folded up on itself at the back, and Franky reaches out to straighten it. She can’t help running a finger down the back of Erica’s calf afterward, and Erica twitches at the sensation, turning around. Franky leans back, hands shaking, and they look at each other, the absolute dimness of the stall making it hard for her to read Erica’s expression.

She stands and washes her hands, chucking the paper towel into the bin. The stall is hot, stuffy, reeking of sex. She wants to tell Erica it’s okay, but she doesn’t know what she’ll be comforting Erica about, exactly. That they fucked in a toilet? That she’s having an on-going affair with an ex-prisoner? Erica’s distant, now, picking up her clutch without a word, and they leave the bathroom in silence. 

In the bar, there’s one bartender wiping down the bench. She nods her head at Franky as she and Erica leave, and outside the wind whips up from the Yarra. It’s pretty late and there aren’t many people left out, not on a Thursday. They end up wandering down the Promenade, headed nowhere in particular, all in a silence that would normally be comfortable, but tonight is cloying.

 

_"This is one of my favourite places."_

_Franky stood in the middle of the bridge, leaning over the side, and looked out over the water, watching the revelers on a party boat not far out. "It's pretty beautiful. I never got to come out here when I was a kid."_

_"When I first moved here," Bridget said, tilting her head up to the cool evening breeze, "I would come down and walk along the water every week. I always used to do it alone."_

_Bridget had a way of making Franky feel at ease wherever she was. They could've been standing in the middle of a gang fight in Footscray and she would still have felt the same safe, easy contentment she felt now, looking at Bridget with a small smile._

_"And now?" she asked._

_Bridget looked away, gaze following the wake of the party boat churning up the water behind. "I never wanted to do it alone."_

 

“Are you all right?” Franky asks, finally breaking the silence.

Erica shoots her a dry look. “Are you?”

Franky stops, narrowly side-stepping a couple holding hands.“That’s not what I asked.”

Erica just laughs humourlessly. “Of course. How do you do it, I wonder?”

Franky throws her hands up in frustration. “Fine, I don’t care. I take back the question.”

Someone’s phone rings, then, breaking their detente. It’s Erica’s. It’s Mark, from the look on her face, and who would be calling at this time of night, anyway? Erica puts her phone back in her bag, letting it ring, and eventually it cuts off.

“I have to go,” Erica says, and something about her leaving cuts Franky. They part ways right then, Erica going back to her car, and Franky taking the nearest tram. Her body aches sweetly in all the right places, but her mind plays back the tape of memory, disquieted by Erica’s face in the mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has commented and left kudos, I see them all and appreciate your feedback. 
> 
> You can find me on Twitter ([@supermatique](http://twitter.com/supermatique)) and Tumblr ([hivesix.tumblr.com](http://hivesix.tumblr.com)). Come talk Wentworth to me.


	6. Chapter 6

Despite everything, they don’t stop. They’re at Erica’s place again, and Franky really shouldn’t be here—she’s wagged more than one study group and she has an assignment due tomorrow—but it’s been almost three weeks since they’ve been able to get together, and she needs to take the edge off. The only thing resembling conversation that they have these days is via the chat function on Words With Friends. Sometimes Franky feels dissatisfied, something hollow inside her that demands more, but with Erica beneath her, hands bound and heels digging into Franky’s side, it’s all right for now.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” she murmurs, running her hand up the back of Erica’s calf. She tilts her head, nipping at the base of Erica’s neck, nuzzling her nose against the soft skin there.

She feels Erica freeze, then half-gasp something that Franky doesn’t quite catch, tugging at the sash they’ve used as a makeshift rope. She narrowly avoids being kicked in the head as Erica begins to struggle against her restraints, entirely unlike what they’ve done before. “Whoa, what—”

Erica practically shouts their safe word, bucking against Franky in a decidedly unsexy manner. “Get off me,” she cries, and Franky draws back in alarm. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” she says gently, already reaching up to free Erica. “There. What’s wrong?”

Erica pushes Franky away, refusing to meet her eyes. She pulls her robe on with a hurriedness that is almost panicky, stumbling off the bed. She’s out the bedroom door before Franky can comprehend what’s just happened. 

Franky flops back down onto her back with a huff. “What the fuck?” she mutters. 

Outside she can just hear Erica’s footsteps, quiet on the marble, then complete silence. She waits a couple of moments before grabbing the top sheet and wrapping it around herself, wandering out into the living room where Erica’s sitting in the middle of the sofa, staring at the blank television screen.

“I think we need a new safe word,” she announces, because she’s suddenly realised that she really doesn’t like it. It was fun before, but now it’s like a joke that’s gone too far. 

“What, you don’t like ‘guard’?”

Erica’s tone is bitter, and Franky pauses at the foot of the carpet, chewing her lip. She’s got no idea how to approach this. She takes a breath and slides down onto the cushion next to Erica and just sits.

She can see their reflections in the television screen, like a distorted kind of reality. Erica in her robe, shoulders hunched, turned away from her, and Franky herself wrapped in a sheet like a ghostly pale projection. It’s a picture of what she fantasised about in the slot, what the two of them would look like together away from all the shit, smack in the middle of the frame of an every day household item. 

All of a sudden, she’s hit with a microsecond of absolute panic. She grabs the remote off the coffee table and turns the television on. Judge Judy’s mincing out some guy who won’t pay child support. Martha Stewart whips out a perfect lamb steak that was made beforehand. News. News. Spongebob. Franky settles for a NutriBullet infomercial and mutes the sound.

“Really?” Erica asks. She just sounds quietly amused now.

Franky rearranges the sheet so she’s cocooned in it, and cheerfully leans back. “Really.” Privately, she’s always liked infomercials—they’re colourful, endlessly positive, and almost always in beautiful houses that she can pretend might be hers someday. 

“It’s on sale at Myer.”

“Oh yeah?”

Erica hums in affirmation. “Saw it for thirty percent off the other day.”

“Huh.”

The hypnotic whir of the blender combined with the pattering of rain against the windows lulls her into sleep, and when Franky wakes up her neck is at an awkward angle against the armrest, her body folded into the couch. It’s still raining, and she can see the flickering of the television against the inside her eyelids. 

She turns over and opens her eyes, and catches Erica watching her with some unreadable expression on her face. She turns away as soon as she realises Franky is awake. Her face is closed, now, and Franky realises what the first look was—it was unguarded and open, something almost tender.

The panic strikes and disappears as lightning quick as before. Franky sits up and leans on her elbows, trying to shake it off. “See something you like?” she smirks. 

Erica only stands and tightens her robe. “You should get going,” she says, still refusing to look in Franky’s direction.

Franky scoffs under her breath and hauls herself upright. “Okay… Or you can tell me what’s got your muff because I’m missing out.”

Erica laughs, a derisive bark. “It’s almost five. You know the rules.”

“The rules?” Franky echoes incredulously, not bothering to hide her scorn any more.

She grabs Erica by the arm and turns her roughly, pushing her against the wall. Erica cries out as her back hits the corner, and Franky muffles Erica’s mouth with her hand as she pins Erica still. 

“You’re not Governor here,” she says in Erica’s ear, punctuating her statement by laving her tongue over Erica’s earlobe, pressing her whole body against Erica’s. She feels Erica arch up against her, a hand dropping to Franky’s waist, pulling her in. “You don’t get to make rules any more.”

“Watch me,” Erica growls, using her free hand to yank Franky’s head back, biting down so hard when she kisses her that she draws blood when she pulls away. They grapple where they stand, but Franky soon gains back the upper hand, pinning Erica’s wrists to the wall on either side of her body. 

Franky lets go, sliding to her knees and undoes Erica’s robe, raking her teeth over Erica’s stomach as she goes. A part of her wants to stop, because this doesn’t feel as good as it once did, but Erica grasps Franky’s hand, twining their fingers together and urging her on silently.

“Franky…” Hearing her name fall from Erica’s lips like that never fails to turn her on. She shivers, her tongue deep between Erica’s legs and her fingers clenching bruises on Erica’s thighs, and all of a sudden it’s too much. 

She shoves herself away, barely registering Erica’s whine at the loss of contact, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She stares at the white marks she’s left on Erica’s skin like she doesn’t remember leaving them. They’ll bruise later, but for now they’re just a pale imprint of her fingertips.

“What the fuck?” Erica gasps, her hips rolling, chasing Franky’s touch. “Franky.”

Franky kneels at Erica’s feet, heart racing. What are we doing? she means to ask, but only the first three words come out instead. She hates the way the question sounds in her ears, plaintive and lost, like she’s a girl again, waiting for someone who’ll never give her the approval she craves.

Erica laughs shakily, looking at anywhere but Franky’s face. “We’re not anything, what are you talking about?” 

But she knows Erica, can hear the lie in the way her voice trembles. She stands and walks back into the bedroom. She sucks in breath after breath, but her lungs won't fill like they’re meant to. Methodically she picks up her things and gets dressed.

When she walks back out into the hallway Erica is finishing what Franky had started, hand buried between her own legs, eyes half-shuttered, biting her lip in concentration. In the silence it is only the harsh sound of Erica’s breathing, coupled with the slick sound of her fingering herself.

She opens her eyes and stares at Franky, who can only stare back. Erica’s gaze is hard and challenging, belied by the way her knees are trembling as she nears orgasm.

_I fuck myself sometimes._

Franky runs, slamming the door behind her.

-

Bridget’s reading in the lounge when Franky gets back. “Hi,” she says, glancing up from her papers to smile at Franky. “I was thinking we could go out tonight.”

“Nah, I’m good,” Franky says vaguely, tossing her things onto the kitchen counter. She walks straight up to Bridget and strips her of whatever she’s working on. Without another word she straddles Bridget’s lap and pushes her back, and with two hands pulls her own shirt off over her head and tosses it aside.

“What’s got into you?” Bridget laughs, but she doesn’t resist when Franky reaches down and starts undoing the buttons on Bridget’s shirt.

“Shut up,” Franky says, running her palms down the side of Bridget’s stomach and up to undo her bra. She makes short work of it, and swiftly moves to Bridget’s belt, ignoring the way her fingers are shaking as she unbuckles the clasp.

Bridget’s hand wraps around hers, stilling her motion. “Babe,” Bridget says, her tone way too fucking tender for Franky to deal with right now. “Is there something you want to talk about?"

A hysterical giggle bubbles up from her throat and Franky swallows it down, leaning forward to kiss Bridget long and slow. “I just need you,” she murmurs when they part, nudging Bridget’s nose with her own. “Please.”

Bridget traces Franky’s bottom lip with her thumb, and in a brief flash of memory Franky remembers doing the same to Bridget in the library almost four years ago, remembers the shaky exhale against her skin that day. There’s something in Bridget’s eyes as she then runs her fingers through Franky’s hair where her plait used to be, something careful and questioning, and Franky doesn’t want to answer it.

She kisses Bridget again, shucking her pants and wiggling out of her underwear, and when she straddles Bridget again she can feel how wet she is against the rough denim of Bridget’s jeans. She whimpers, touching herself before she can stop. There’s a harsh bob in Bridget’s throat as she swallows, resting her hands on Franky’s thighs, and then she sits up, wrapping one arm around Franky’s waist to flip her onto the couch.

Bridget licks a long line down Franky and back up to her clit and Franky shudders as she stares at the ceiling, a hiccup of laughter in her mind thinking of all the dinner parties Bridget has thrown where her friends have sat around on that very sofa drinking shiraz out of expensive wine glasses.

 

_“You could at least pretend to pay attention,” Bridget laughed, nudging Franky’s shoulder as she collected the empty glasses around the table._

_“I did.” She hadn’t really. But Helena was one of the more boring people Franky had ever met. What kind of person told a story about renovating an apartment and having a cabinet fall over in the middle of the night—and that was the end? Fucking boring people, that’s who._

_Bridget scoffed without bite, placing the glassware on the counter. She rubber corked the bottle of wine and said, “I could’ve stripped down right in front of you, given you a lap dance and you’d still have been somewhere else.”_

_Franky grinned. “Shall we test that theory?”_

 

“Where'd you go?" Bridget murmurs against her, and the vibration sends a frisson up Franky’s body. Franky shifts instead of answering, chasing the edge, knotting Bridget’s hair in her fist. She falls back into the memory, remembering how Bridget had narrowed her eyes and then uncorked the wine, sauntering around the kitchen island and unbuttoning her shirt as she backed Franky into the bedroom.

Bridget’s tongue is in her as she plays back the way Erica moans her name, recalls the way the light was striking the side of Erica’s face, casting shadows over her mouth as her lip trembled, and comes so hard lights blossom behind her eyes.

Bridget kisses the inside of her thigh, stroking her hip as she comes down. Her breathing is loud in the dark, and she’s aware of Bridget looking at her out of the corner of her eye. 

This is so fucked up, but it’s what they are, and it’s too terrifying to change.


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

P A R T  III.

W I N T E R

 

_How long till you leave her? You should know that we’re alone this time._

\- “Lungs,” CHVRCHES

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Bridget fucking loves the Hawks, and Franky lets herself be dragged to a game against Melbourne one afternoon. It’s a compromise she makes in an attempt to stave off a giant blowup between them—things have been strained, to say the least. Bridget’s caseload with a new prison has left her pulling long hours, and Franky juggling her new position at Steven’s firm doesn’t help things; by the time they both get home at night, their tired tempers are fraying, and they’ve long lost the careful civility that comes with figuring a new someone out.

But Franky’s frustrated, too. Erica’s been avoiding her, made all the more obvious by the fact that the office isn't big enough for them to actively stay away from each other. What conscience she has eats at her when she admits that she's more concerned about that than Bridget. 

_Can relationships just peter out?_ she wonders. Are she and Bridget playing out their half-lives? It’s a topic she and Bridget could spend hours debating, if she weren’t so afraid of where the conversation would lead. 

She spends most of the game texting Victoria, who’s moving house with her boyfriend. It occurs to Franky that Victoria might be the only friend she has, a proper friend not associated with Wentworth, not someone from VACRO or someone she only tolerates for a study group, and not one of Bridget’s friends-by-proxy, either. 

 

_Bridget was glued to the screen, biting her nails as Hawthorn chased the third quarter, twenty-four points down against Geelong. Franky was sitting on the other end on the couch, feet on Bridget’s lap, doing the Saturday crossword on her phone._

_“What’s a word for ‘an oral examination,’ four letters.” Franky smirked and chuckled at the suggestive possibilities that ran through her mind. She nudged Bridget with her foot. “Oi.”_

_“Hmm?”_

_Franky put her phone down. “Seriously?”_

_“Babe—” On the telly, some guy from the other team bounced the ball mid-run and lost control, turning it over. “Ha!” Bridget cheered. “Suck on that, Enright.”_

_“Oh my god,” Franky muttered, “I’m in the Twilight zone.”_

_The teams broke for the fourth quarter and Bridget turned the volume down, turning to Franky. “What did you say?”_

_“Never mind,” Franky said. She skipped the next two clues to 10-down._ Court precedent, _eight letters. T-E-S-T-C-A-S-E._

_“Oh,” Bridget said, patting Franky’s ankle, “Did you want to come on Wednesday? It’s John’s birthday.” Franky racked her brains trying to place him from what she’d heard of Bridget’s friends so far. “Sarah’s husband,” Bridget prompted._

_Oh, right. Franky shrugged. “Do you want me to?”_

_“Yeah,” Bridget said. “I think it’ll be good if you finally met them.”_

 

Hawthorn wins convincingly, and the home end is in good spirits at the final whistle. On their way out, a man stops right in front of them in the middle of the concourse, having spilled his beer. Unable to stop in time, Bridget jostles into him, while Franky manages to veer off to the side, only slightly pulling Bridget out of the way. The man’s mates are laughing as he shakes his scarf dry.

“Sorry,” the man says, glaring at his friends. 

“You’re all right,” Bridget replies, and behind them a woman’s surprised voice says, 

“Franky?”

Franky turns, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand, and almost drops her phone. It’s Erica, walking with a man and another woman, all dressed in Hawks gear to varying degrees. In order: the other woman—blonde, tall, incredibly hot—decked out in Hawthorn’s home guernsey and scarf; the man, holding her hand, with brown and gold striping his cheeks; and then Erica, who’s dressed in a black sweater and holding a souvenir flag like a child gripping a lollipop they don’t like the flavour of but are stuck with it anyway. 

Of all the people to bump into at the freaking G.

“Erica,” she says. “Hi.” She smiles pleasantly enough, but furrows her brow as she and Erica have a quick exchange in the split second that their eyes meet.

_What the hell?_

_I’m sorry! I panicked._

_You don’t even like football!_

“Introduce us to your friends, Rick,” the blonde woman says smoothly, chin lifted as she looks at Franky. Franky has the unsettled feeling of being examined, sized up.

“Franky, this is Sylvia and Luke. Franky’s doing a clerkship at the firm,” Erica explains, as the three of them shake hands. Sylvia’s grip is like an eagle’s claw, and her gaze is not dissimilar. 

Franky introduces Bridget to the trio, and the fans enthusiastically discuss the score (178-65) for a moment as they walk. She and Erica look everywhere but at each other.

“Hey, do you want to come over?” Luke asks when they exit the gate. “We’re having a barbie later with a bunch of others, they’re just on the other end.” He waved in the general direction of Punt Road.

“They’re probably busy,” Erica says at the same time Franky goes, “Nah, I think we’re good, hey babe?” and Bridget says, “Why not; Franky?” and they all stop and look at one another. 

Franky is a vessel, and the air that fills her is dread.

“I’ve got so much paperwork to do,” she blurts out, cringing internally at the cliched excuse. “I’m so sorry. Next time?”

“Next time,” Erica echoes with a tight smile, and Franky clenches her jaw as she and Bridget leave the others, trying to calm her rapid heart. 

“I thought you finished everything last night,” Bridget says when they reach the car, unlocking the doors. 

Franky avoids Bridget’s gaze and slips into the passenger seat. “I forgot a deposition Steven wanted.”

"Don't you want me to meet your friends?" Bridget's tone is casual, but Franky recognizes that razor edge that Bridget gets when she’s dissecting something in her head. It simmers beneath her non-threatening demeanour, and Franky instantly feels wary and defensive. 

_Erica's not my friend_ , she thinks, but out loud she says, "It's just not a good time."

Bridget lets the matter slide until they’re almost home. “We’ve been together for four years,” she says, out of the blue, but Franky knows that Bridget’s been thinking about their social life for the past fifteen minutes, and she just about loses it.

“Jesus, just drop it, all right?” she snaps. “It’s never been a problem before.”

“Hasn’t it?” Bridget asks, fingers tense on the steering wheel. 

 

_Sarah walked back into the room. “I don’t know if I have enough,” she said, peering into a small tin, poking around in it. “Not for everyone, anyway.”_

_Franky stood up to go to the bathroom, and when she passed Sarah on the way back the contents of the tin caught her eye. “What is that?” she asked, hoping to hell that she was wrong, but she knew she wasn’t._

_“A good time,” John laughed, clapping Franky on the shoulder. “Hey, you want another beer?”_

_“Nah, thanks. I gotta go.” Franky pulled away from John’s confused look and grabbed her coat from the sofa. Anger blossomed within her. How could Bridget put her in this situation?_

_Bridget saw her get ready to leave and came to her from the other side of the room. “Hey, what’s going on?”_

_“I’m going home,” Franky said shortly, trying not to blow up at Bridget in front of her friends. “I’ll take the train, you stay.” She nodded reassuringly at Bridget’s frown, giving her a quick kiss as she wrapped her scarf around her neck._

_“No, that’s okay.” Bridget looked over at where John and Sarah were watching the exchange, and when her gaze fell onto the drugs in Sarah’s hand, she realised in an instant. “It’s getting late, I’ll come with you.”_

_In the car, Franky was freezing and furious. “I am so sorry,” Bridget said, profusely apologetic. “I had no idea they had that.”_

_“What the fuck kind of friends do you have?” Franky said abruptly. “What the fuck are they doing with weed? They’re fucking fifty.”_

_“At least it wasn’t cocaine.”_

_“This isn’t a joke,” Franky exploded. “Peterson could pull me up for anything if he wanted to.”_

_“I know,” Bridget said, immediately contrite. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”_

_“Fuck,” Franky breathed, looking out the window. “The fuck, Gidge.”_

 

Franky wants to punch something. “Why don’t you just say what you want to say?”

There’s a long silence and they’re on their street, now, when Bridget says, very quietly: “I know you don’t love me.”

Franky turns to Bridget, incredulous denial on her tongue, when she catches the look on Bridget’s face. It isn’t about psychology at all. It’s about them. Bridget pulls into the garage and cuts the engine.

Franky chews on her lip. She feels trapped in the car, twitchy, and she crosses her arms and settles for bouncing her leg against the door. “What have I ever done to make you think that?”

“You didn’t have to do anything,” Bridget says, her voice brittle but steady. “I came into this relationship with my eyes open.” 

It’s too fucking stuffy in the car. Franky opens the door and gets out. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, shaking, even though she knows it’s the truth.

“Don’t patronise me,” Bridget warns, following her. “You know what I do for a living.”

Franky swallows, staring at Bridget over the roof of the car. She isn’t ready to have this conversation, but then—would she ever have been? They stand there for ages, in the cold grey concrete of the garage, sunlight streaming in from outside.

“I knew what I was signing up for,” Bridget says. Her eyes are red from unshed tears. “I’ve had no pretensions about what we are. But if you’re going to live in this house, you’re with me, and only me.” 

The jig’s up, the secret’s out; she wants to throw up. Franky nods; there’s no point in denying it. 

“When did you know?"

"The night you went out with Victoria.” Franky’s mind races, playing back every time she’s said she was with Victoria, but was with Erica instead. Bridget catches the look on her face and laughs mirthlessly. “The night you _said_ you went out with Victoria,” she amends acerbically. “You came into bed, and you kissed me. You smelled of sex. I knew.” Bridget’s voice breaks. “Tell me who she is.”

It was the night at Southbank, Franky realises. That was over two months ago. “Gidge—”

_“Tell me!”_

“Erica!” Franky shouts back, and guiltily feels lighter for it. “Okay? It’s Erica.”

Bridget’s laugh is a single bark, harsh and disbelieving. “You have got some nerve.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, knowing that she is sorry but not what she’s sorry for exactly—at getting caught, at Bridget’s pain, that Erica’s married?

“Don’t say what you don’t mean.”

“Don't tell me how I feel!” Franky yells, slamming her hand on the hood. It stings, and she does it again for the pain she deserves.

“All right then,” Bridget challenges her, “tell me what you’re sorry for.” She pushes the button to shut the garage door with some force, which grinds down with a painfully slow speed.

“I’m sorry I broke your trust.”

Bridget scoffs. “This isn’t about trust, Franky. Don’t you think I know how hard it is for you to do that?” A few tears do fall this time. “This is the first home you’ve had. A home we made together. So it’s not about trust. It’s about the fact that you want someone more than you want me. And I won’t live here with you and look at you every day when you’re fucking someone else. You could at least respect me that much.”

There’s still a part of Franky that reflexively expects to be sent to H2, or be slotted and left for an indefinite period of time with the lights on around the clock, but she’s an adult now, free from parole. There’s nowhere to go but her own choice, and the realisation hits her like it usually does, like something she’s known objectively but not as part of a bigger whole.

She doesn’t know what to do. They’ve come to the watershed of their relationship, and what happens next will be the slot or gen pop—and she is the one who chooses, this time. Franky moves to Bridget from around her side of the car, and Bridget watches her steps warily, but doesn’t move away. 

It isn’t until Franky steps close enough to kiss her that she does step back, holding up a hand, stopping her. 

“You should go,” Bridget says quietly, hand on Franky’s shoulder, keeping her at bay. “I need some time alone."

 

* * *

 

She rides the trams aimlessly, meandering in and out of the inner suburbs for an hour or so. It’s a quiet night, clear and cold, and a part of her feels just as numb emotionally. On a whim she decides to ride the city circle, watching tourists hop on and off. They pass Fed Square once, twice, three times, and on the fourth loop she gets off and walks out, trying to shrug off the unsettled weight that seems to have made a home in her. She passes the Fed TV, where a polar bear is digging itself a home in the middle of a blizzard. It digs as little as possible, letting the snowfall provide the rest of its shelter as it huddles into the side of the mountain and waits for winter.

The program cuts to birds taking their chances on a frozen lake, but it’s too late—some of them have already died. Franky turns away and walks to Flinders.

She doesn’t know where to go, doesn’t know if she can even go home (probably not), and she’s so lost in her thoughts that she only realises she’s headed to the cemetery when the transfer she needs to take has reached the end of the line.

 

_“You’ve got more letters,” Bridget announced as she walked in from downstairs, dropping a stack of forwarded mail onto the kitchen bench as she kissed Franky on the cheek. “I’m beginning to think I shouldn’t have updated your address.”_

_“Winter’s coming. It’s good kindling.” She didn’t read the fan mail any more. Four years later and people still wrote to her. She was surprised they hadn’t just binned them at the halfway house._

_She leafed through them, not expecting to receive anything in particular. But a white envelope with a law firm’s letterhead and MISS FRANCESCA DOYLE typed in block letters caught her eye. She opened it, scanning the contents, but quickly stopped reading after the first few sentences. Her heart quickened in her chest; a hollow feeling beat alongside it._

_“Earth to Franky.”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“I said, ‘how was your day?’” Bridget opened the larder and dug out some trail mix. She rolled her shoulders and heaved a huge sigh as she munched on a handful of almonds. “You all right?”_

_“Fine.” She neatly bundled the letters Bridget brought in and tossed the letter on top of it. She’d throw them in with the circulars that kept coming despite the sign on the mailbox. “I peed in a cup, then washed the dishes of the hipster elite. Unfortunately those were mutually exclusive activities. Yours?”_

_“Nothing so stimulating.” Bridget sauntered over to Franky’s side of the island, and Franky obligingly dropped what she was doing to face her. Bridget moved between Franky’s legs, arms wrapped loosely around her neck, half-sitting in her lap. “Dinner?”_

_“Absolutely.” Franky grinned and tightened her grip around Bridget’s waist, pulling her closer. She breathed in the scent of Bridget’s leather jacket, mixed in with the delectable smell of Bridget herself, and ran her hand up Bridget’s thigh._

_“Franky,” Bridget drawled, even as she shifted in Franky’s lap. The warmth turned into a burn against the flat of her hand. “I meant food-wise.”_

_“There’s something perfectly good enough to eat here,” Franky smirked, standing and pinning Bridget’s body between her own and the counter._

_“What’s this?” The letter Franky set aside caught Bridget’s eye. “Looks official.”_

_Franky shrugged. “Dunno.”_

_Bridget held Franky off with a gentle hand on her shoulder, and picked up the letter. “Franky, this is a will.”_

 

She’s been here once, with Bridget and only well after the funeral was over, but finds her father’s headstone easily enough in the end. It’s small, with ALAN DOYLE and his dates of birth and death inscribed onto the plain granite. There’s an identical square next to the grave, reserved for her father’s widow, and Franky feels a streak of resentment against Alan’s second wife.

_The sins of the father_ , she thinks, kicking at the neat grass at the foot of the grave, hands in her pockets as she scuffs at the ground. 

“Didn’t get a chance to leave her, didja dad? Well, you sure helped me fuck this one up."

But even as she studies the grooves where her last name is spelt out like a morbid reminder of her own mortality and everything in between, she knows the onus is on her. The decisions were hers, the responsibility for the consequences hers also. She can’t keep blaming her father forever, and resents that she’s grown enough in the last few years to realise that fact. Bridget’s played a big part in that.

Franky sighs and sits down on the grass, her legs suddenly heavy. Birds crow around her, faintly disturbing the relative quiet of the cemetery. 

 

_“You should go,” Bridget said, and her gentle, non-judgemental tone stirred up an irritation in Franky._

_“What for? So a bunch of old dicks can tell me how sorry they are for my loss?” Franky brushed past Bridget, shaking her head as she picked up their plates to take to the kitchen. “Nah, I’m good.”_

_“He was your dad.”_

_“He was a man who fucked my mother and left us.” Anger bubbled out of Franky like a fountain and she slammed the cutlery down by the side of the sink, head bowed as she tried to calm the frantic pounding against her rib cage, to shove down the heat pulsing up from her collar. “They can bury whatever it is he wants to give me with him.”_

_“Don’t you think it’d give you some closure at least?”_

_“DON’T shrink me,” Franky snapped. “You read everything from a file. You don’t know what he did to me.”_

_“So tell me,” Bridget said, coming around to stand next to Franky. “I’m here.” She placed a hand on Franky’s shoulder, and her warmth brought Franky tumbling back to earth. She turned to Bridget, burying her head in the crook of Bridget’s neck, and cried over her father for the first time since she’d left Wentworth._

 

It’s over, she knows, and the hard knot of comprehension coagulates into a lump that sticks in her throat. They could try, but Bridget deserves better than half of Franky’s heart, and where would they end up anyway? Franky isn’t ready to let go of Erica, though for whatever masochistic reason she can’t figure out why.

Four years out of Wentworth and she’s got one friend to show for it, along with a broken relationship and Erica who could just be trying her on for size.

Fucking hell.

As dusk sets in, so does the rain, and Franky doesn’t know where to go, doesn’t know if she wants to go home, and so she hops onto the nearest bus, lost in her thoughts until she realises she’s in Erica’s neighbourhood. 

It’s startling how easily her legs seem to remember the way, propelling her off the main road and down Erica’s street, up the driveway and the security light pings on when she walks up the step to the front door. She feels reckless, dangerous, and it hasn’t been so long that she doesn’t remember what that used to lead to.

She knocks on the door, not a clue what she’ll say to Erica, but it becomes moot when the door opens and a man opens it. So this is Mark. He looks… ordinary, rumpled in grey sweatpants and a dark blue t-shirt.

“Hi,” he says carefully, not unlike greeting a door-to-door salesperson. “Can I help you?”

“Is Erica home?” Franky asks, her mind racing as she tries to come up with an excuse. Mark has thrown her. “It’s about work. I’m, ah, an associate at the firm. I couldn’t get through to her cell. It’s urgent.”

“She’s not here,” Mark says, and Franky remembers the barbie. Of course. “She's out for the night.” He hesitates, before asking, “Did you want me to try ringing her?”

“Nah, it’s all good.” Franky waves his offer off with a hand. “I’ll just email her.”

She leaves before he can say anything else, cursing herself, feeling like she’s falling apart. 

-

She ends up calling Victoria, who doesn’t ask any questions but lets Franky crash on the couch. “Take as long as you need,” she tells Franky, digging through a pile of boxes in the kitchen for a spare duvet. “It’ll save us going to study group at least.”

Franky laughs, and sniffles. “Shit, I gotta get my stuff.”

“I’ll drive you if you want,” Victoria says. She’s got her reading glasses on, the new frames that Franky helped her choose a while ago, and staring up at Victoria standing there with her hands on her hips, Franky suddenly realises that—yes, Victoria really is the only, true friend she has. 

“Okay, we’re not going to do this,” Victoria decides abruptly, waving at Franky’s introspection like Franky’s a piece of unwanted furniture she’s trying to figure out what to do with. “I’ll get Joel to pick up some dinner, we’ll eat, and then we’ll go get your stuff, okay?”

It’s just relief to have someone else make a decision for her, no matter how trivial. Franky nods, and slumps back down on the couch, weary and exhausted.

-

The house is empty when Franky walks in through the front door. A quick check in the garage reveals that Bridget’s taken the Harley. She only rides it when she needs to think something through. The helmet’s gone from the rack, at least, and Franky turns off the garage light when she heads back upstairs.

The house is exactly as they’d left it that morning, evidence of the expectation of an otherwise ordinary Saturday. Franky stands in the lounge for a moment, taking in the ring of dried coffee on the coaster on the table, the paper half-folded and tossed aside for later where Bridget had taken the sports section and Franky refused to give up the fiction reviews column. The throw rugs on the sofa, tossed in with the remote control. 

“Want me to wait in the car?” Victoria asks, breaking into Franky’s thoughts. 

“Nah, you’re right,” Franky sighs, spurred into motion then. “I won’t be long.”

 

_Bridget’s study was filled with books. Textbooks on various topics of psychology—cognitive therapy, intelligence and personality, a huge section on forensics—but the one that caught Franky’s eye was the sizeable section on sex._

_“Ohh, what is this!” she crowed with delight. “You’ve been holding out on me.”_

_Bridget just laughed. “In a past life I worked in sex therapy for a bit.”_

_Franky looked scandalised. "Hands on?” She picked up a book at random and flipped through it. “Look at the pictures!” She turned it over and read the title. “Tantric Sex: a Path to Sexual Bliss. Gidge! This should be in the bedroom, not here with all these stuffy books.”_

_“I don’t know,” Bridget said doubtfully, coming over to where Franky was standing. She plucked the book out of Franky’s hands and casually flicked through a few pages. “It’s pretty advanced stuff.”_

_“Ha! Is that a challenge?”_

_“You know I don’t like to bring work home.”_

_Franky pulled a face. “We are home.”_

_Bridget’s reaction wasn’t what she was expecting next. Her expression grew soft and Franky was briefly reminded of the various puppy-like gazes Bridget used to give her in the corridors of Wentworth. “You think we’re home?” she asked with a smile, putting the book down on the shelf._

_Franky shrugged, trying to deflect the significance of actually having a proper home. “Aren’t we?”_

_“All right,” Bridget said, laughing as she picked the textbook up again. “Maybe I can make an exception this once.”_

 

She’s just packed up her laptop and grabbed her phone charger when she hears the garage door grumble underneath the floor. Out of habit, she counts Bridget’s routine off in her head. 

She hears Bridget and Victoria exchange greetings, their voices low and moderated as the sound travels through the walls. She checks that she’s got everything for work, closes her bag, and casts one last look around the room before she leaves.

“How’s Joel?” Bridget is asking when Franky walks into the hallway. She has her helmet in hand, and her hair is tousled, cheeks whipped red from the cold.

“Yeah, he’s good. Just got a raise last week, actually. So… yeah.” Victoria sticks her hands in her pockets. “Er, I might just run to the loo before we go, if that’s all right.”

“Of course,” Bridget smiles, ever the gracious host. “You know where it is.”

The two of them are left standing in the middle of the corridor, looking at each other. Franky swallows. Bridget looks exhausted, completely drained, and Franky can tell that she’s been crying. 

“Staying with Victoria?” Bridget asks, her voice quiet and hoarse. 

Franky nods. “Just for a bit. I guess.”

“Have you got everything?” 

Franky holds up her bag. “Just some stuff for work.” 

“Okay.” Bridget looks away, past Franky into what used to be their bedroom, and her chest hitches. 

“I, um. Did you want me to come tomorrow, still?” Tomorrow’s a dinner with Bridget’s old work colleague, who’s in town for a couple of weeks.

"It's probably better if you didn't.”

In the low, soft light and the walls so close in a space so small, it isn’t hard to remember how it felt to feel like she and Bridget were the only two people in the world. 

Franky lets out a slow breath. “You were wrong,” she says. “About me loving you.” She reaches out and tentatively touches Bridget's hip, expecting to be pushed away, but Bridget doesn't move a muscle. 

She tilts her head and leans forward, so close now that their breath mingles, and Bridget tenses under her hand when Franky brushes her lips against hers. At first, Bridget kisses her back, sweet and desperate, but pulls away shortly after. 

“Let me know when you want the rest of your things,” she says, and when she reaches up to rub at her face, her hand comes away wet with tears.


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

 

P A R T IV.  
S P R I N G

 

_What I need is to find the thrill of it  
Hold out hope there’s something left_  
\- “In the Air,” MAALA

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

“Do you love her?”

Erica can’t reply. 

“Are you in love with her?”

Erica laughs. It’s more of a scoff than from any kind of amusement. “That’s not possible.”

Sylvia regards Erica over her cappucino. The look on her face is a mixture of sadness, sympathy, and the skepticism that calls bullshit in the way that only a best friend can. “That’s not what I asked.”

Erica inhales deeply, exhales just as hard. It’s a fucking mess, is what she’s in. She draws shapes on the table with her teaspoon. The foam from her flat white has dried on the surface, but still leaves a faint trail of coffee behind it. “You don’t love Franky Doyle. You love the power she has over you. The power she makes you feel.”

“And it’s not just the sex.”

“God, I wish it was.”

“Were.”

Erica frowns. 

“Were,” Sylvia repeats. “You wish it weren’t just the sex.” Off Erica’s incredulous look, Sylvia raises her hands as if at the mercy of her inner grammar fascist. “Luke’s mum gave us these grammar books for Ruby, I read them.”

Erica laughs, shaking her head. “You’re an arse. _Were_ you aware of that?”

“Look, it’s like these jeans I’ve got,” Sylvia says, and it’s only because they’ve been friends for so long that Erica trusts she’s taking the story somewhere and not just comparing her love life to denim. “I love them so much, I wish I’d bought a second pair at the time. But it’s not like I bought them loving them straightaway. I only love them because I wear them all the time. I’m used to them now. Nothing fits my butt better. Do you see what I’m saying?”

“You’re saying Bridget”—the name somehow tastes sour on her tongue—“is a pair of jeans.”

“No, you’re the jeans. You don’t believe me,” Sylvia states, reading Erica perfectly as she always does. “Well, sub Franky for you and Mark.”

“Mark’s got nothing to do with this.”

“Bullshit,” Sylvia presses. “Mark’s exactly my point. You’re used to him. You married him because he was there and you’d been together for so long. The difference is you still don’t love him.”

Erica flinches at that. She feels cold all of a sudden. There’s truth to what Sylvia’s saying, but she can’t buy that Franky would stay with someone only because she was used to having them around. Franky would be bored, she’d look for something new, _someone_ new—

someone like her.

“What if Franky—” Erica tries desperately to corrall her thoughts—“What if Franky’s not sick of her old jeans but just wants another pair for the heck of it?”

“What if Franky’s jeans never fit properly,” Sylvia counters, “and she hasn’t found another pair until now?”

“This is a stupid analogy,” Erica laughs, but she wants to cry.

“Because you’re twisting it. Look,” Sylvia says, not unkindly, “I’m just saying so what if she’s not in love with you? Something’s there with this girl at least. And you won’t know how she really feels until you give it a go. Also,” she adds, tossing her head back in mock horror, “how old are we, talking about feelings? I want to gag.”

“Fuck off.” Erica chuckles at Sylvia’s expression of mock disgust . Sylvia’s made it sound so clear, so straightforward. But how could she throw her whole life away—a life she’d tried so hard to make perfect—for Franky Doyle, of all people?

 

* * *

 

In the end, she and Mark fight—again—and it’s about the stupidest of things, as always: Mark wants to go away for the weekend, but Erica has work to do. 

“You always have work to do,” he complains. “Anyone would think you were making partner instead of me.”

His comment bites, and anger flares up in Erica before she can stop it. “So what, just because I’m not in a position to root more interns, my work’s not worth it?”

“You’re always working,” Mark argues. “You even have your damn associates coming to our house in the middle of the night!”

Standing in the middle of the kitchen glowering at each other, the realisation strikes Erica like looking at a tableau: this is it. She’s all at once acutely aware of herself, of the adrenaline running through her, the quickening beat of her heart, the trembling of her fingertips, the sudden excess of energy spiking in her blood.

“She wasn't an associate,” she says, and her voice comes to her own ears like she’s listening to herself underwater: she knows what she's saying but it's murky all the same. 

“What?”

“I’ve been seeing someone.” A part of her mocks that she’s putting too much stock into her relationship with Franky to call it _seeing_ , but the larger part also acknowledges that that’s what she’s been wanting it to be the whole time.

“Who?” Mark asks, confused and thrown, but Erica watches as realisation slowly spreads on his face. “That girl?”

Erica sucks in a breath, trying to school her thoughts to figure out what to tell him next. _We’ve been fucking. I don’t love you. You deserve someone better. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s going to happen but I know I can’t be with you—_

“Are you—” Mark chokes a little, face crumpling—“Have you always wanted… women?”

“No!” Erica scoffs quickly, as if it’s the silliest thing she’s heard, but she’s wondering the same thing. It’s not about women, that much she knows. It’s about Franky.

“I want a divorce,” Mark swallows, his voice shaking.

A divorce is messy, protracted, and the only option. Erica takes off her ring, guilty at the relief she feels. She leaves it on the counter, the kitchen spotlight striking harshly upon it, sending a sharp glint into her eye. She turns it away. “I’m sorry.”

“If you were sorry,” Mark says, and his tears make Erica feel wretched, “you would’ve left me in Sydney.”

 

_“How long?”_

_Mark stood at the door to their bedroom, filling up the space, blocking Erica’s path._

_“Mark, it was one time—”_

_“How long, Erica?” he demanded, taking a step forward but not moving closer. “How long have you been fucking her behind my back?”_

_“Just once!” she shouted, feeling dirty and awful in the aftermath. It had felt deliciously right at the time, her body still aching from the way it had been tortured and teased for hours on end. “It was only once.”_

 

For all that it took to build her relationship with Mark, it doesn’t take long for it to all come undone, like breaking down flat-pack furniture in a day and shelving the boxes in storage. Mark moves out, and Erica learns from Sylvia that he’s staying at the Hilton, and she supposes that it’s fair enough for him to get comfort from somewhere, at least.

Life goes on, without fanfare or monument, and the days tick by relentlessly. Franky increases her hours at the office once her exams are over, and for all that Erica tries, it’s only so long that she can keep on avoiding her. 

She walks into the breakroom one day, and Franky’s standing by the bench pouring milk into her coffee. Erica has to brush past her to put the jug on. They stare at each other, listening to the rising whine of the kettle, broken only by Franky replacing the cap on the bottle and putting it back in the fridge. Then she picks up her mug, takes a sip, and they stare at each other some more. 

Franky’s the first one to break the silence. “How are you?” she says simply, and Erica feels a tightness in her chest unlatch itself. She hadn’t even realised it was there. 

“Fine.” She even manages a smile. “How are you?”

Franky gives her a lopsided smile in return. “Fine. Listen, I wanted to say—sorry about Mark.”

Erica hates how astute Franky can be sometimes. “What?” 

“Your ring,” Franky says, and of course she would have noticed. Erica puts her hand in her pocket before she realises her action, and out of some misplaced defiance pulls it out again. She doesn’t know where to put it, now, feeling intensely conscious of how she’s standing, and settles for the pretense of checking the kettle. 

Erica swallows. She doesn’t have anything to say. But suddenly she wants to know: “Are you really? Sorry?”

Franky chuckles, as if she’d expected nothing less. The kettle clicks off as Erica waits for her answer. 

“It was said with the best of intentions,” Franky says, taking the kettle before Erica can and filling her cup for her, “because I know how horrible it is when something ends, whether or not it’s for the best.” She gets the trim milk out, adding just the right amount, then fetches a clean teaspoon from the drawer and gives the instant a quick stir. “Bridget and I broke up.”

“I didn’t know that,” she says, and immediately feels inane, because why would she? She’s the one who deliberately stayed as far away as possible. 

Franky picks up her own cup and hands Erica hers with a small smile, but there’s no pleasure in the gesture. “You do now.”

Erica takes the mug by rote as Franky leaves, too stunned to reply. 

(Her coffee’s just the way she likes it.)

-

Back in her office, she picks up her phone. The red notification on her long-abandoned game of Words With Friends against Franky stares at her accusingly. She’s got nothing but vowels, no points to win, and Franky’s ahead by well over a hundred points. It’s one reason why she’s left her turn for as long as she has. In the end, she settles for six points and is rewarded for it by another E.

It isn’t five minutes before her phone bleeps with a chat message.

 _Are you throwing this game?_ Franky’s typed. 

_Never_ , she writes back. 

She waits, acutely aware of just how horribly right it feels to be back playing that simple game again, but her direct line rings instead. Erica picks up already knowing that it’s Franky. “Hello.”

“Hey,” Franky says, and Erica can hear her warm smile down the line, picture the cheeky lilt of Franky’s greeting in her mind’s eye. “I’ve got no vowels.”

“I’m not surprised,” Erica replies, eyeing her tiles with disdain. “I have four As.”

Franky laughs. There’s a short silence between them, and then Franky quietly offers, “Start over?”

Her tone is different, serious now. Erica knows they’re not talking about the game any more. She thinks back to the day she had offered the same thing almost eight months ago. “I’d like nothing better,” she says, and wonders if it could really be so easy.

 

* * *

 

She lies on the twin bed of Franky’s apartment, a small studio Franky’s rented from someone she used to know at VACRO. Sweat cools on her body as she traces the shadows cast from the bird’s nest lampshade hanging from the ceiling. 

Franky walks back in, holding two glasses of water. She puts one down and rests one knee against the bed, handing the other to Erica, who takes it and balances the glass in the centre of her chest. The water trembles with her breathing. 

“What are you doing on Thursday?” Franky asks. 

Erica can’t seem to think. “I’ll have a look when I get home.” 

“There’s this band playing that Rachel told me about,” Franky continues, and Erica tries to think of who Rachel is. Rachel in Accounting? There’s a Rachel in Acquisitions, too. Heather’s daughter’s name is Rachel, but that’s with an extra A. “We could go check it out.”

Erica looks at Franky, who’s watching her from above. “Who else is going?”

Franky shrugs. “I haven’t asked.”

“No-one from work?”

A microexpression of annoyance passes across Franky’s features like a shadow. “Maybe? I don’t know. Lots of people happen to be in the same place at the same time when there’s a large social event. It’s just a band.”

Yes, but it’s a band that Franky’s just asked her if she’s interested in seeing, and just the two of them, evidently. “It’s _just_ a band if you’re _just_ asking me to go.”

Franky comes to her, and the bed shifts with the movement. She curls up on her side next to Erica, and Erica turns to face her, cupping the glass of water between them like a shield. Franky swallows, and Erica watches the way her throat moves, watches the pulse beat in her neck. “Do you just want to go?”

She’s got the same heightened, prickling feeling as when she and Mark had their final fight. They’re destructive, a terrific wind of anger and denial whipping through the unstable foundations of their relationship like a sandstorm in the desert. Erica craves Franky, loves the darkness Franky pulls out of her, and now she thinks she might truly love who Franky is. 

“I want to go somewhere,” she admits, and her lungs seize all at once with her saying what she wants out loud. She sits up, cross-legged on the bed. Some water spills onto her calf; Franky wipes it away with the pad of her thumb as she copies Erica’s movement. “I want this to go somewhere, and if we're going to carry on like this,” Erica says, the words coming out a lot steadier than she feels, “that’s what I need from you.”

Franky’s gaze is intense and piercing, and Erica feels like she’s being flayed from the inside, dissected into what each part of her means to Franky. Her hands, to be tied. Her lungs, a breath Franky shares now and again. Her lips, bruised and bitten. 

“I don’t know that I can be what you need,” Franky admits eventually, slowly like she’s testing the words as they come out of her mouth.

_My heart, irrelevant._

“If you don’t want to,” Erica says, feeling like she’s free-falling, “just say so.”

“I do want to,” Franky rebuts immediately. “You know I do. From the beginning, you were the first person who believed in me. Pushed me because you knew I was worth something—prison bullshit aside. I want to say that I’ve grown. That I’m not angry any more, that I’m mature, that I’m okay with being alone.” Franky pauses, chewing at her bottom lip as she always does when she’s trying to nut something out in her mind. “But I’m not.”

"I can't wait for you," Erica says, even though she knows she will, knows that she's been waiting this whole time. What else can she do? She gets off the bed, picking her blouse up off the floor, dressing herself with shaking fingers. Franky follows her.

"Erica, please. You told me what you wanted, and I’m not that person right now."

If Franky’s trying to be mature, Erica would rather take the alternative. What she wants from Franky, compared to what she can get—well. They’re like two pieces of a jigsaw that will never fit with one another. Maybe she should’ve wisened up to that fact by now. 

The room is so small that Franky’s back is to the corner, and Erica remembers—she’ll always, always remember—that afternoon all those years ago where they stood in the corner of another room and fought over their futures. _The more things change, the more things stay the same._

“I’m not coming on Thursday, okay?” she says, and she feels so tired, so drained at having to play this push-and-pull with Franky again. “I hope you enjoy the show.”

She leaves, and it’s horrible, because what had it all been for, in the end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks. Thank you for reading. Once again I'm very appreciative of all your kind words along the way. And of course thanks to Ria and rollerbenes for the back and forths and support while writing this.
> 
> If you wanted to get into my headspace for the overall feel of the story, this is the "roll credits" song, if you will: [Do You Remember](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tw4J4u2Rxm0) by Jarryd James.


End file.
